A record of the daily life of my alter-ego, Lovely One, a painter of all things. The line between us has become blurred with the passage of time and we are almost One. There is a grain of truth in all One's daily doings. One has a Vile ex Husband, two deceased pussies and a Boy. the pursuit of love remains uppermost in the minds of both One and Lovely One. Sadly, we both fail time after time after time... All characters in this story are fictional, especially me...

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Wednesday, 29 April 2015

So, One hung up One’s lion-tamer chair in the staff-room, fired up the Ferrari and mosied off over the moor into the arms of the bronzed Adonis (see above)

‘Weight?’ said he, as we traipsed around Tesco, so dutifully One waited…

‘You daft tart!’ said he as One stood their awaiting further instruction, clutching me bag of dried mixed fruit…

You’ve got to admit, Dear Reader, that ‘weight’ sounds very much like ‘wait’ and One, being an obliging sort doesn’t question the orders of the Admiral, but merely carries them out as readily as One can.

Let me explain, Dear Reader…

‘I feel a cake coming on,’ said he as One was pointed to the ‘home baking’ aisle…

‘Twas a mo or two before One caught up and replied ‘500g’ but by then he’d launched into a voluble tirade of abuse aimed at the gormless One, to the disgust of housewives various as they pushed their trollies laden with Turkey Twizzlers and sliced white…

‘Oooh that poor girl,’ tutted the passers by, ‘I bet she has a helluva life with that brute,’ as they shuffled off to their, vested-up Onslow’s sat at home in front of the football.

Of course in the comfort of One’s home, he is a veritable pussy-cat, but you know what they’re like, Dear Reader, they put on a show for the outside world.

~

Today One is aching from head to toe…

Re-landscaping the grounds was possibly not the most sensible use of One’s day off from tearing up and down the stairs chasing naked men.

Tomorrow is the grand reunion, Dear Reader, when the A of the F will no doubt be waiting at the drawbridge, staff assembled for inspection by One, brandishing a magnificent bouquet of horticultural specimens gathered from the grounds.

Or, alternatively, he could be shivering ‘neath the satin sheets sniffing and whimpering: he has Man Flu.

~

One is v displeased this morning…

Venturing into the back yard with One’s Espresso and breakfast fag, One was met with a vast array of fag butts that were no doubt hurled from an upstairs window, wherein reside some unsuitable neighbours.

Last evening, upon One’s late return from the House of Fun, One was enjoying a pint of Pinot and a fag in the grounds hoping for a bit of peace since it had been a gruesome day mainly centred around charging up and down stairs and attempting, unsuccessfully, to avoid being the target of a new Paintball inspired game: ‘Pooh-balling’…

… when One’s reverie was rudely interrupted by the dulcet tones of aforementioned upstairs neighbour hanging out of her window to get a phone signal and in so doing delighting all below with tales of her, ‘abusive relationship’ and all it’s ghastly fallout.

One is pondering what to do with the fag butts…

Should One post them through her letter box?

Should One hammer on the door and when answered, hand her the offending butts with a stern, ‘Yours I believe!’

Or should One call in the Uber Lieutenant from up the block to have the usual solicitor’s letter sent for misdemeanours various? We now pay into a monthly scheme with the local Solicitor since such a large chunk of our maintenance charges are used for litigation.

One shall deal with this one personally, since having been on the receiving end of the wrath of Head Girl of the block, One merely wants to advise the young people of the error of their ways, not have them lined up in the car park and shot.

However, should they continue to irritate One, One shall be forced to exact an awful revenge…

Monday, 27 April 2015

Bloody Amorous Accountant keeps messaging One via POF. Not as a possible suitor, Dear Reader, he is just a chum of One’s who is trawling the ether for desperate middle-aged women and wants tips for the enticing of such sorts.

One replies. One is a polite kind of person, which opens the floodgates for lonely Bunnagers looking for someone to accompany them to tea rooms various for tea and buns.

At first One would reply with something like…

‘I am currently dating a splendid old gentleman. Would you care to be placed on my substitutes bench in case it doesn’t work out?’

Now, deeply entrenched with the Admiral, One doesn’t even acknowledge the in-box full of rancid old roués. Anyway, One is half the size of the One that appears in the photograph advertising Oneself and One’s accompanying pussy is deceased and now serves as a toilet roll holder, see above.

~

The Admiral has returned to Blighty with a Croatian Crookage. Probably lavatory linked lurgee as One was, only last night pondering the toilette arrangements of six beer-swilling, retired policemen aboard a floating retirement home.

One would wager there wasn’t a Toilet Duck Fresh Disc in sight! And given that they all took only hand luggage, a catering pack of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime was pretty much out of the question.

Where does all the policeman pooh go, Dear Reader? What is the fate of the Sargent's solids? Whatever happens to the Detective’s doings and the Constable’s crap?

Does it get discharged into the briny and float off, flotsam like to litter up a green flag beach somewhere?

Does it get stored in a big container and have to be emptied by a poor cabin boy?

One can’t dwell on that all day. One has the morning off and intends to finish the landscaping of the grounds,

Sunday, 26 April 2015

That’s me that is, Dear Reader, see above, following an extended visit from The Wood Nymph and her pet Peer of the Realm.

‘Ooooooh Claaaaayyrrrr. you are soooo beeeeautiful, I meeesed you sooooo much,’ she shrieked as she flung herself into my arms.

Take note Admiral of the Fleet: this is the ideal greeting for a Lovely One…

Not the…

‘Watcha mate. Put the kettle on,’ One usually gets at the Manor.

Mind you, when I responded to the the A’s enquiry,’what days have you got off this week?’ and replied, ‘Wednesday afternoon until Saturday morning. Shall I come over?’ He replied, ‘of course,’ which as you know, Dear Reader, in Admiral-speak, is akin to, ‘If you ever need a vital organ replacement, you can ‘ave one of mine.’

Any road up, we sat, (me and the WN) in the rain, in the back yard with unsophisticated massive glasses of the Co-op’s finest and smoked fags all afternoon.

Lord B turned up in the twilight hours and joined us, making One go ‘all a quiver,’ in the presence of beauty.

He flolloped, all long, lean limbs and fine-bones upon One’s Chesterfield and quaffed a pinot with the nonchalant grace of One who shall inherit the earth. Unlike the WN and One, who were guzzling and lolling about scoffing cherry tomatoes wrapped in Prosciutto, like One does.

Friday, 24 April 2015

One finds Oneself re-evaluated from being ‘too posh to clear up pooh’ to being christened ‘Jacqueline Dee’ as One apparently delivers utterly hilarious statements with a dead pan face.

Thus far…

One shock

Two weird dreams

One should still play netball

The shock – Have found out, via Facebook, that one of One’s erstwhile wine guzzling, chain smoking chums is running in the London Marathon. This makes One feel inadequate in the extreme, since One had intended to lead a chaste life in the scoff and pinot department in the absence of the Admiral and re-appear as a svelte love-goddess upon his return. What actually happened was that One didn’t walk to work once, ate loads of chip positive ‘dinners’ and inhaled a goodly proportion of the European Wine Lake.

Two weird dreams -

Dream one – One was horrified to find, during aforementioned dream, that One had grown an enormous willy. Not only that, but it had the habit of becoming erect at most inconvenient moments beneath One’s diaphanous, chiffon, Chloe Tea Dress. Upon googlerisation of ‘willy growing dreams’ One has discovered that One has become in touch with One’s ‘animus’ which, in a nutshell, (geddit) means that One is in perfect harmony with One’s masculine side. Further investigation unearthed that this means One is perfectly capable of organising One’s entire life without the assistance of a bloke.

Hoo-fecking-ra

Dream two – One of One’s non-verbal charges sidled up to One and said…

‘Oi, don’t tell anyone, but I can actually talk. I’m only telling you because I like you.’

Flippin’ ‘eck thought One, I’d hate to be someone you don’t like, as she sauntered off with a handful of One’s golden tresses and 4”x4” chunk of skin off me right forearm.

As for still playing netball, One was the captain of the netball team at Icknield Juniors, Dear Reader…

One was presented with the gift of a handful of poop which One expertly lobbed across the room straight down the lavatory.

The Admiral of the Fleet would be amazed at that particular feat since One can’t even get One’s empty fag packet into the bin at two paces.

Thursday, 23 April 2015

One, Boy, Aged P’s BF and Daughter outside One’s tiny little country cottage, that went into the communal pot and was lost forever when One encountered Vile ex Husband.

Came upon picture, see above, during massive cleaning up session in Underground Lair.

‘Tis they who have invited One to Alabama. Would that One could oblige and visit…

~

LO Hello how are you?

Aged P That bloody Eileen makes me sick she’s got sciatica, according to that idiot Doctor, and I know full well that you can’t get attendance allowance for that! What about me? I’ve got load of stuff and nobody gives me anything.

LO Why don’t you ask social services then. I’m sure you could get some help.

Aged P Anyway it’s down her right leg and you can only get sciatica down your left leg.

LO Well, I expect that the Doctor knows what he’s talking about.

Aged P HUH! Anyway she’s always going down the town eating sausages and she wouldn’t be able to do that if she was in pain. I’m sick of it! I had to walk right up the station to get the bus and I’ve just had a big glass of red wine.

LO Is everything else alright?

Aged P Maureen said to me that you’ve always worked hard and you have such bad luck it’s not fair.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr

Indeed, ‘tis not fair.

Any road up, One was vacating the premises yesterday and greeted one of One’s co workers with a cheery ‘Hello’

‘You should have done that,’ replied aforementioned co worker pointing at the thing what One should have done.

Now, call me old fashioned, but I always start a conversation with a cheery greeting and One assumes that this is why One is blessed with the face of an Angel since ‘you get the face you deserve after the age of forty’

Suffice it to say, the unpleasant person has succumbed to this dictat. Either that or she’d got her face on inside out.

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

BF and One sat in the sweltering April sun with a cream cake and a Pinot (watered down) and had a lovely chat.

One has been invited to Alabama by Aged P’s best chum. Obv One would like to attend but is absolutely skint as you know, Dear Reader,

I don’t think that when One says ‘I don’t have any money’ people realise that I actually mean…

I DONT HAVE ANY MONEY

Another communiqué from the Admiral of the Fleet showing off about where he is and how he and all the other retired policemen are having a lovely time floating about being handsome and drinking beer and probably frightening Croatian women minding their own bees-tiddly-wax doing their washing on the beach and stuff.

Short day today so shall be continuing to sort out the sorry mess that used to be One’s garden.

Must get it done as One has to sell the Underground Lair in order to pay off One’s debts various and have enough money to live until One becomes an elderly burden on the state.

Current plan is to purchase van and live in the style of the Old Woman on Alan Bennett's driveway. Probably on BF’s gravelled area outside her bung.

Before that though, One intends to biff off to the Amalfi Coast and swim across to Capri singing Gracie Fields songs and loll about in the manner of Noel Coward smoking fags and being rude about everyone.

Tuesday, 21 April 2015

Am actually quite good at aforementioned job and am now fully acquainted with all the moves to ‘non violently crisis intervene’.

Have met many new persons who are completely alien to One except in the alcohol and fag department. Anyway, all an adventure for One having spent a goodly amount of time in solitary confinement with One’s easel.(where One would still be if all you selfish bastards would spend your hard earned cash on One’s doings instead of paying your rent)

Up and in the garden with breakfast espresso and fag at 5.30am in order not to waste any of day off. Would have been before that, but fifteen minutes were required to re-assemble cafetiere that new lodger had taken apart to wash. Didn’t even know it came apart.

Must shove off to bank what remains of month’s rent in order that One can address at least one of the demands for payment from the mountainous pile of unpaid bills

Yesterday was busy laundering all massive clothing to bung on ebay (having lost buckets of lard from body since met the A of the F.)

During process realised what a marvlious personage the Admiral of the Fleet actually is…

Not only was One a complete biffer when One met him but One had all that tumour nonsense going on and the post menopausal leakage requiring One to constantly be followed by a serf with a bucket and mop.

Man must be saint – indeed!

All down to his patience when dragging the previously gargantuan One up hill and down dale when One had to stop at every bench on wayside for a huff and puff. Now, One positively canters up v steep hill in style of mountain goat.

Must remove all super-floo-us hair (grows from weird and previously hair-free areas when one is a bit old) and soak gusset floss in bucket of Cilit Bang Grime and Lime in preparation for his imminent return.

BUT…

BEFORE THAT…

Am currently awaiting a visit from the newly returned Wood Nymph, all bronzed and shiny from Puerto Rico.

No doubt as we speak, Dear Reader, she will be submerged in a claw-footed bath somewhere in a stately home with Lord B…

Have awoken with start realising that One is spending nights alone under same roof as chap One doesn’t even know last name of…

One’s ‘subby’ as referred to by A of the F must have been privvy to this information, but

‘I know the girl who lived here before’

was enough info for One… UNTIL…

One of One’s co-trainee type companions, upon questioning One re: One’s life in gen and living arrangements in particular…

‘What are you going to do immediately you get home, young lady?’ enquired co-trainee (actually a person younger than One)

‘find out his name! That’s what’ she went on.

NOW – One is quite happy to have BF and BFP boss One about in all life matters as they are sensible little wombles and have doubtless saved One from fates worse than death on many an occasion, but, please, Dear Reader, surely One can’t have got this far without the smallest smidgeon of common sense, can One?

Any road up, was contemplating just that in the back yard with a tumbler of Pinot and a fag last evening and planning the start of the conv…

‘Oh by the way, person in spare room, what is your name?’ when One inadvertently guzzled whole half pint of Pinot and had to go to bed at half past eight, without acquiring desired information.

Anyway, have passed another night without being chopped up and left out for foxes to mangee, so must be OK.

Training going alright, although when required to block a kick from a rather handsome co worker, One shot up in the air shouting ‘eeek’ or some other such girly response and was on receiving end of a ‘hard stare’ from Trainer.

The bus ride was a welcome chance to sit down for One, as One had spent the previous two hours attempting to secure a Tasmanian Devil inside a Haute Couture ensemble which was, of course, two sizes too small.

One’s fellow worker was a delightful companion and One’s charges were compliant and content for much of the day.

It would appear that ‘chips with everything’ is the order of the day for lunch, which is amusingly referred to as ‘dinner.’

One remains immune to the lure of the chipped potato and thus an outcast in wider society since most fellow humans are wedded to the deep fried pomme de terre.

No matter, One acquired a ‘fruit bag’ at one of the three McDonald’s visits and in so doing stumbled upon a future ‘easy money’ career…

A ‘Fruit Bag’ contains approximately a quarter of an apple and six very small grapes and costs 79p

That’s the way to go, Dear Reader, ‘fruit bag’ construction and sales…

Friday, 17 April 2015

One gained this information following a flying visit to the Pinkster who gets weirder and weirder each time we meet.

One couldn’t help but notice a large structure made of mud in the sitting room of Pinkster Towers, see above.

‘it’s a rocket stove,’ said she, ‘It heats the whole house and does the cooking.’

‘Mmmmmm, weird, as One opined earlier.

Any road up, One digresses, One is apparently too posh to clear up pooh and the rest of One’s new workmates are poised for One to vacate the premises sharpish.

Sadly, One can’t oblige and shall be elbow deep in merd for the foreseeable.

One has poshed up throughout One’s life journey from a Council house in Luton, but One is on the downward trajectory and One is sanguine at the thought.

The Admiral of the Fleet will be winging his way to a 60ft yacht in Croatia with another five stinky retired policemen, as we speak and One spent his first night away under the same roof as another man…

Not in the biblical sense, you understand, Dear Reader, but One has a new housemate at long last.

A charming chap, young enough to be the son of One, so One has someone to look after in the absence of the A of the F.

Man stuff has appeared in the bathroom. Apart from that there’s been no change in the Underground Lair, but watch this space…

Off to do two twelve and a half hour shifts this weekend – whoopee!

After that, a two day course in Non Violent Crisis Intervention.

What’s the point, Dear Reader, because as you know, One has never encountered a situation that violence couldn’t solve.

That’s you, that is, Dear Reader, (see above) celebrating en mass, as One has finally let the spare room and is in possession of a wedge that will go immediately to pay the mortgage. Not a moment too soon, Dears, as yesterday the blighters gave me ten days to pay or they would start repossession.

Just like busses, two prospective tenants came along at once…

‘I need to live in Wiveliscombe for personal reasons,’ said a mysterious sounding sort, when One innocently enquired why someone working in South Molton would want to live here.

Mmmm, thought One, she sounds like hard work, but then, a bloke appeared in the inbox and what a dysfunctional, ‘stuff in the back of the car’ type he sounded. That’s the one for One, thought One, and indeed, upon perusal of the spare room he’s moving in today.

That’s One back on the futon in the tiny room then. Oh well, c’est la vie.

So, today, One shall mostly be deep cleaning the Underground Lair in preparation for his arrival this evening.

Echoing the Admiral of the Fleet, the new tenant, who shall be known as DN, said to One…

‘You might need to show me how the washing machine works.’

What is it with these chaps? Do they think it makes them look attractive/desirable/helpless etc.

It does bring out the latent mummy/housewife in One though, so One expects that One will be making sure he’s got clean pants on before he goes out in case he gets run over.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

One has ironed the Admiral’s Dress Uniform, see above, Dear Reader, and now he’s all set to biff off and float about being handsome for a week.

‘I’m not wearing sun lotion,’ says he as One enquired as to his skin care regime. Nonetheless One has secreted a bottle about his person and has paid another member of the voyage to sneak up on him and squirt it liberally upon his delicious self throughout the day.

One doesn’t want him coming back all red and blistered and whingeing.

There was a lot of bottom lip quivering as we bade one another farewell, but he pulled himself together eventually.

We have spent every single weekend together (from Friday to Tuesday) since we met.

What the feck am I going to do without him?

Oh yeah, I remember, go to work.

He spent last evening serenading One on the Harpsicord in the music room whilst a flunky moved among us with fish finger sandwiches and pints of Vodka shandy.

One’s horizons shall be a tad limited until his return, so have opted to put One’s days off to good use.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

So, there you have it Dear Reader, One is awake and unable to settle in the wee small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world is fast asleep…

(you lie awake and dream about the girl and never,ever think of counting sheep) Frank Sinatra

‘Where would you like to go?’ enquired the A of the F as he sat there in the passenger seat of the Ferrari looking positively divine.

‘Lynmouth,’ says One (see above) and so that’s where we went.

With the addition of a quart of oil the ve-hicle had stopped emitting the self-same aroma as pervades the galley when the oven door is open, so we took to the winding lanes of Deepest Devon and enjoyed the spring sunshine.

All the holiday shops are open and spilling their ‘must-have’ wares onto the pavements thronged with sensibly dressed, back-pack wearing persons from foreign climes and the indigenous population shivering in their Matalan ‘three vests for a fiver’ and their flip-flops, airing their hairy toes and veruccas.

We tagged on to a party of schoolchildren and enjoyed a film of ‘Exmoor from the Air’ in the local museum, where we were reminded to ‘look with your eyes and not your fingers’ and where the A of the F really entered into the spirit of the thing by demanding to ‘go toilet’ as soon as the lights went down.

Settling down to scoff the remains of yesterday’s pie of the Sheep Herd and moan about the rubbish on TV, we were interrupted by the house phone…

‘there’s something wrong with Claire’s phone,’ said Aged Mother to the A of the F, ‘what shall I do? Can you find out where she is, shall I put the phone down?’

‘She’s sitting next to me’ he replied and handed me the device…

‘I’ve just been down Debenhams and they wanted my pin number for a short-handled handbag. Well, I don’t bloody know what it is. I had to go all the way up the station to get the bus and I’m not doing that again. John took me and Delphine down there and then picked us up and her knee is really bad now. The bloke who charges twenty pounds to do the grass only cut a few twigs off the Forsythia and wanted to use my toilet – cheek! You don’t get enough gravy in the Ewe and Lamb and you can’t get anything normal in Lidls. I don’t want Parma-bleedin-ham and if I can’t another one of those short sleeved cardigans you got me I shan’t be able to go out at all. Anyway, by the time Eastenders is finished and bloody Eileen’s had three wees in Tesco, that’ll be after ten o’clock when they bring me my shopping…’

So, here One is again, Dear Reader, propped up in the golden sleigh bed in the second best suite at the Admiral of the Fleet’s gaff…

He is reading. This presents a problem of great magnitude for One as first thing in the morning One likes to partake of a little natter. Nothing of note you understand, merely any old thought that’s been ricocheting around One’s head throughout the night.

But no, silence must reign in order that the A can concentrate on yet another ‘Boy’s Own, tale of military types bashing each other up.

Nipped in to sneak a fag up the top of BF’s garden yesterday.

‘I don’t know how to open the lid,’ says One upon telling BFP about the ‘Engine Service’ light that had appeared on the Bugatti.

‘There’s no oil in the car, you daft bint,’ opined BFP.

Flippin’ ‘eck, that’s all One needs, thought One and gratefully accepted a donation from BFP’s store until One can save up for a bottle of One’s own.

Shoved off to do a day’s superannuated housework and person supervision after that.

‘Tis a mark of a civilised society that we take the utmost care of persons who are unable to do so themselves, and with that thought ringing in One’s ears, One spent the morning chasing a naked man up and down stairs and the afternoon biffing about the hills and valleys in a big blue bus.

Sunday, 12 April 2015

One finally arrived, covered in the scars of a whole fecking week’s work, and the deaf git didn’t hear the doorbell. So, there One stood in the dead of night, shivering and melancholy.

Eventually, admitted, One discovered the delicious A of the F with nothing on but the wireless and his Delia Smith pinny, the lark’s tongues in aspic already simmering proffering a silver spoonful of Beluga and a flute overflowing with Bolly.

Sorry, Dear Reader, he’s all mine. You can’t have him. It’s taken me fifty six years to find him and he’s securely manacled to One’s soul.

Wednesday, 8 April 2015

One is utterly ex-bleedin-hausted! One actually worked until 8.30pm. A shock to a delicate system likes One’s, I can tell you, Dear Reader.

The delicious A of the F, however, was obv lolling about on a cliff top somewhere in deepest Devan looking edible, as evidenced by the photographs One received, see above…

One ‘supported’ less able persons to the best of One’s meagre ability all day long.

‘Are you enjoying it?’ enquired one of One’s workmates.

‘Enjoy, is probably not quite the right word,’ replied One.

‘Enduring it then?’ asked he.

At present it’s probably somewhere in between, Dear Reader, as One is still reeling from the shock of actually being employed.

One shall give it One’s best shot and hope that’s good enough, however, as One is required to earn a crust.

‘Tis payday on the morrow and a chance for at least one lucky creditor to be drawn from the top hat and receive a payment, and, perchance, a tiny treat for Lovely One, say a smallish bottle of Pinot, that One shall consume in a single glug before falling like a felled oak into the A of the F’s sleigh-bed and pushing out the Z’s till One does it all again next week.

One, currently wearing the ‘hair shirt’ of life in most areas, usually sleeps in the straw truckle bed, whilst offering to the completely disinterested public, the spare room, see above.

However, feeling smug in the extreme following almost three whole week’s work One decided to throw caution to the wind, and in reckless abandon rewarded Oneself with a kip in comfort and splendour.

One has had what is known as a ‘day off.’ Having had aforementioned ‘day off’ One has realised that One has been enjoying ‘days off’ continually since 1991.

If only you selfish bastards would keep on buying One’s paintings instead of clothing and feeding your ghastly offspring, One could return to One’s previous cushy little number instead of biffing about tending to the sick and needy who invariably repay One’s kindness by biting/biffing/bashing One.

Any road up, One spent One’s ‘day off’ knocking up a masterpiece – YES! HAVE GOT A COMMISSION! – and then deep cleaning the kitchen.

Have just learnt what ‘deep cleaning’ is – they do it at work apparently.

Any road up, rather than just wiping the surfaces One could see and shoving everything unsightly into the cupboard under the sink, One dunnit proper, like what them girls does at work.

Feeling saintly and fulfilled One cleared off down the hill to surprise BF and partake of a couple of sneaky fags up the top of her garden, but the back door was shut, indicating no one at home.

Ferkled about in the garden clearing up a year’s worth of goo left by SIT and listened to the goings on from the other flats.

Feel left out by life living alone and not only that, but have woken up having morphed into some massive snot-producing dollop blowing One’s nose to no avail in the manner of an enormous heffalump.

Monday, 6 April 2015

So, Dear Reader, off we pootled to the Valley of the Rocks, near Lynton…

Half the population of the Punjab had opted to spend their Easter Day there too, it would seem.

Up the steep mountainous paths One observed sprightly, elderly, Indian ladies in startlingly coloured saris biffing up the treacherous slopes like the indigenous goats, looking a tad incongruous it has to be said.

One remained an observer at the bottom, but did perambulate v close to the edge to gaze out to sea. It was one of those divine days when it was impossible to discern exactly where the sea ended and the sky began. One always has to fight the urge to leap over the edge and let One’s spirit soar, but One isn’t quite that batty – yet.

The A of the F really is a first class companion in all areas and every day spent with him is a pleasure for poor dear Lovely One, who currently spends the passing of many a moon tending to the sick and needy.

He does get a little shirty about the dubious driving habits of other road users, particularly those odd little blighters who biff about on bicycles getting in everyone’s way.

‘Just look at their faces,’ shrieks he, ‘they don’t even look like their enjoying it, do they?’ and indeed they don’t.

Along the narrow, winding, cliff-top roads there were some rather splendid homesteads, no doubt housing the privileged upper echelons of our disparate society and we ‘oohed’ and aahhed’ our shameless envy.

‘Tis One’s dearest wish to house the creaky old Admiral in one such establishment. Park him on an upper balcony to gaze out to sea with his telescope, whilst One reclines in majestic splendour upon a tiger skin listening to him rant on and on and on and on about the dubious sailing habits of other sea faring types…

Still, in under two weeks, he too shall be bobbing about the Adriatic being handsome and, oh, I shall miss him…

Sunday, 5 April 2015

What to do first...
Scrape the mould off the bedroom wall or nip out into the grounds and start the Easter Egg hunt.
Or, perchance, vacuum the hot cross bunnage crumbs off the bed.
Himself is deep into a game of sudoku and won't even give me a single clue as to the whereabouts in the vast grounds he has deposited One's Faberge egg.
One is obv deluding Oneself as the master chocolatiers at Lindt didn't make a chocolate bunny with One's name on it.
What a drag it is growing old.
Too old for Valentine's...
Too old for Easter Eggs...
Sadly just the right age for ironing and cooking the leg of a tiny baby lamb that was gambolling around the field opposite the pub, where yesterday One partook of a few beakers of cloudy cider.
We biffed off to the sea to take some pics but forgot to put the battery in the camera, so went to the pub instead.
A delightful little establishment, sadly with all the atmosphere of Napoleons tomb.